


Where Did You Get That Hat?

by sonofabiscuit77



Category: The Beatles
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-13
Updated: 2013-05-13
Packaged: 2017-12-11 18:54:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/802031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonofabiscuit77/pseuds/sonofabiscuit77
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a pwp with John and Paul messing around while editing Magical Mystery Tour.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where Did You Get That Hat?

**Author's Note:**

> For [](http://obstinatrix.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://obstinatrix.livejournal.com/)**obstinatrix** who asked for hat!fic months ago and who I'm going to see in a couple of hours, so belatedly, my darling, here it be. I wrote this in literally ten minutes, so apologies all round for any mistakes ;-)

Inspired by this gif:

 

“Where’d you get that hat?” John says.

“Um, I think it’s one of Jane’s,” Paul says, not taking his eyes of the film footage the obliging man from the studio keeps running on the tiny TV screen.

“So it’s a girl’s hat.”

“S’pose so.”

“And you’re still wearing it?”

Paul turns his head to look at John. He’s supposed to be watching the footage too. They’re supposed to be finding stuff they want to keep and stuff they want to use for the film. But instead John is staring at him with his eyebrows raised, looking like he's got his own private joke that he's desperate to share.

“Are you going anywhere with this?” Paul says.

John folds his arms, leans back in his chair, there’s definitely a dangerous glint to his eyes now. “You’re wearing a girl’s hat,” he says like that should explain everything. It doesn’t. It just means that John’s got bored of working and is looking for something else – or someone else – to distract him.

“So? You’re wearing a white jumper. S’just a hat,” Paul answers. He reaches for the pack of cigarettes on the desk beside them, shakes one out and slots it into his mouth. John’s still watching him, eyes narrowed behind his granny glasses. “Want a fag?” he asks, tilting the pack John’s way.

John takes one without saying a word. He leans into the match Paul holds out, sucks on his cigarette as it catches, cheeks hollowing and lips thinning.

“You’re not pulling it off you know, the hat,” John says. The cigarette jerks up and down in his mouth when he speaks. “Makes you look soft.”

Paul rolls his eyes and tosses the used match into the ashtray. “Get back to work,” he says.

“Such a bloody slave-driver,” John mutters, but he does finally seem to turn his attention back to the screen.

“Run that last bit again,” Paul tells the operator.

**

They stop for a tea break. John disappears while Paul talks to the operator. His name is Stan, he’s only just out of art school, he’s a bit full of himself. Paul drinks his tea while John’s tea sits on the side getting a scum on the top. Fifteen minutes come and go and John's tea is stone cold and undrinkable and still John doesn’t come back. Paul sighs and goes to look for him.

John’s hiding in the loos, and he’s smoking pot.

Paul closes the door, leans back against it with his arms folded. One of the cubicles is closed and locked and the smoke is wafting over and under the door.

“This isn’t Abbey Road,” he says, speaking to the closed door. “This is Soho. They’d probably let us do that in the studio, if we wanted.”

“Just ‘cause we’re the Beatles,” John's voice says, he's using that annoying mocking tone.

“Yeah, probably.” Paul moves forward, knocks a beat on the locked door. “Open up.”

The door bangs open and John peers around it, nose scrunched up and eyes red-rimmed, the joint is smoking between the fingers of his right hand.

“G’is us a go,” Paul says, making grabby fingers.

John hands it over and Paul takes a toke, exhales a stream of smoke into the already smoky air. He can feel John’s eyes on him, assessing in him that way that makes his skin prickle and his guts feel tight.

“What?” he says.

John puts his hand on Paul’s belt and hauls him into the cubicle. The door bangs closed behind them and Paul laughs, snorting out a lungful of smoke. John leans in and the brim of the hat clonks against his forehead. Paul giggles and John pulls a face, he whips the hat off Paul’s head and drops it onto the floor by the toilet.

“Hey!” Paul starts to protest but he doesn’t get much further before John’s mouth is on his and they’re kissing.

John’s mouth is familiar, he always kisses in the same way, like he thinks he's got something to prove and he thinks that this entire thing is a joke at the same time. Paul sometimes wonders if John kisses everybody like this, or if it’s only him that inspires this mixture of cocky and self-assured and self-deprecating and desperate for attention.

John’s hand is on his waist and he slides it around to the front of his trousers where Paul can feel his cock starting to swell. John breaks off the kiss and pulls back, looking down both their bodies to where his hands are hovering around Paul’s crotch.

“You wear such daft shit, McCartney,” he says, eyeing the rows of complicated buttons on Paul’s fly with disgust.

“Shut up,” says Paul and he drops his hand to John’s wrist, guides John’s hand to where his cock – now fully hard – is tenting the fabric of his trousers. “Go on,” he says.

John gives him a look, that long superior one where he looks down the end of his nose, but he obligingly rubs the palm of his hand over Paul’s crotch. “You want me to wank you off with your trousers still buttoned? We’ll be here all fucking day,” he complains.

Paul sighs and drops the remains of the joint – it’s gone out anyway – into the toilet behind them, then he gets to work on undoing his trousers. Admittedly, John might have a point about his choice of clothing for today. How many buttons does one fly really need? Not this many and that's for sure. But in his defence, he didn’t know that John would be in this kind of mood today. They haven't messed around like this for a while.

“Maybe I should go out there and have another fag while you finish up,” John says, looking amused by Paul’s efforts.

“How about you undo your own bloody trousers,” Paul says, “save us some time. We got to get those scenes cut today, John.”

“God, it’s always work-work-work with you,” John sighs, but he’s got that smirk playing across his mouth as he pulls down the zipper for his own trousers.

They shuffle together when they’re done. John shoves his face into the crook of Paul’s neck, nosing under the collar of his shirt, his glasses pressing into the side of Paul’s throat in a way Paul knows is going to leave marks afterwards. They grab each other’s cocks, and this is the time when Paul really thinks it would be so much easier if he were right-handed. Still, though, it’s not like they don’t have years of practice, and the way their elbows and wrists bump together when they wank each other off is even sort of nice in a familiar this-is-us-this-is-how-we-do-it kind of way.

It doesn’t take long. That's another advantage of being with John, he knows all Paul's buttons really too well. He makes a noise into Paul’s skin and jerks his head back and then there’s come all over Paul’s fingers, which is just the cue for him to follow suit. John, like the bastard he is, steps back right at that moment, yanking his hand away, which means that Paul ends up spurting all over the bloody floor.

“Tosser,” Paul says.

John laughs and glances down at the white thready stains on the floor as he fastens his trousers and tucks his cock away.

“I’m not clearing that up,” Paul says.

“You just going to leave Beatle spunk all over the floor, are you?” John says, sounding mock-offended. “Tch, tch, people would pay good money for that. Hey, look, you can wipe it up with this.” He bends to pick up the hat he’d tossed aside before.

“Dickhead," Paul says. He takes the hat from John’s hand and puts it on again. “I like this hat.”

“Yeah, ‘cause you’re soft in the head.”

“Yeah, too bloody soft,” Paul mutters. He shoulders the cubicle door open and they spill outside. John goes to wash his hands and Paul grabs up a couple of paper towels, drops them down onto the offending stains. “There, that’ll do," he says as he goes to wash his hands.

John’s got his hand on the door and he’s watching Paul with an evil gleam in his eyes and a smirk on his lips. “Hey, darlin', you with the hat? You coming back to work, or you gonna keep fucking around in here? Don’t know if you noticed, but we got a film to make.”

Paul ignores him and straightens the brim of his hat in the mirror over the sinks. He doesn't care what John thinks, he loves this hat.


End file.
